Capitulation
by gilmorefanforever
Summary: She was glad the handcuffs were what he remembered, rather than that they had met just as she was giving up. Pre-Rent.


Capitulation

**Disclaimer: **I would give several limbs to possess a small percent of the genius Jonathan Larson—may he rest in peace—had, but alas, I don't. Rent is not mine.

**--**

Your heart is in your throat. You had really thought you could stop. Had to stop. How could you keep doing this after she died? And after you...

You try to quiet your thoughts. There's a chance you'll be fine. Not a good chance. But a chance, nonetheless. The doctor said it would be a week before he had definitive results. A godamned week. How can you expect yourself to bear that sober?

"It's been a long time," a voice from behind you says. You jump slightly. It's doubtful you'll ever get used to The Man's chilling voice. Turning to face him, you try to remember when you started to fear him so much. The Man... In a time that seemed so long ago, a time before you were hooked, you had laughed at the respect your friends gave that name. It was like he was God or something.

Now, you realize he might as well be.

"Two weeks," you answer back shortly.

He smirks. "That's a _long_ time, sweetheart." He puts a mocking emphasis on 'long,' and you wonder for a moment if he can read your mind and see just how long those two weeks were. If he can see the image burned in your mind of your dead friend lying on the floor of her dressing room. If he can hear the other dancers murmuring words like 'fool' and 'accident' and 'overdose.' If he knows that it made you sob so hard your make-up smeared, and you almost missed your entrance because you had to reapply it. That all you could think about on stage was a very much alive girl who, just three months before, had waved a needle in your face and offered you 'the key to ecstasy.'

"Yeah."

You close your eyes tightly as you slip the money you had been saving for rent into The Man's hand, and wait for him to press It back into yours. The heroin. Your hand-- hell, your entire body-- craves it. When you feel it in your palm, there's a flood of relief. You're ashamed of that. Ashamed of the fact that you, Mimi Marquez, are an utter failure and you hate yourself for it. You still can't look at The Man, see the smug expression you imagine he's wearing, and as you walk away, you keep your eyes glued to the dirty alley ground. It should surprise you less that you bump into something.

You look up.

_Someone_.

The first instinct you have is to be pissed the idiot wasn't watching where he was going, despite the fact that you weren't either. You glare at him, and his eyes, slightly red rimmed, and with dull purple bags under them from apparent lack of sleep, meet yours. "I'm sorry," he offers. He sounds, if possible, more tired than he looks. Now that you're looking, he's actually rather attractive, with blonde hair that's sticking up in all directions. Maybe if he were smiling...

In a flash, you realize you recognize this guy, from where, you can't quite remember. . As you try to place him, his gaze falls to your right hand, where you, carelessly, still clutch the bag The Man just gave you. You shove it into your pocket before he can comment.

But he comments anyway. "You're young." He sounds fascinated, and he's staring at you like an experiment. You twitch a little. If you don't get upstairs soon, you think you'll pass out.

"I'm eighteen!" you argue defensively. Lie. You won't be eighteen for two months. But that stopped being important when you came to New York.

"That's young," he states.

Your eyes narrow. "Who you to talk?" He raises an eyebrow, surprised. "You can't be older than..." an estimate. "Twenty three."

A sardonic grin crosses his face. "I suppose I'm young too, then." You were right, smiling, even less than happy smiling, suits him well. Disappointingly, the grin disappears quickly, and when he speaks again, you have to wonder if he's even still speaking to you as he stares at something behind you. "You should quit."

"I... can't." It feels good to admit this failure to someone. For a moment, you think he's going to reassure you, but his only reply comes with the same wry smile from before.

"I know." You spin and watch him walk down the same alley you've just come from, and you're sure he does know. And that makes you feel utterly hopeless.


End file.
